


Rest Easy

by adventuresofmeghatron



Series: Reclamations [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Sleepy shenanigans, They Are Incurable Dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/pseuds/adventuresofmeghatron
Summary: Deacon dozes off. MacCready and Natasha have some fun.
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Reclamations [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944889
Comments: 23
Kudos: 16





	Rest Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Squeaking in a small contribution to Fluffy February. My writing plans sort of went awry this past month, but I couldn’t pass by one of my favorite tropes without throwing something together!
> 
> So here’s some small Deacon, Natasha, and MacCready shenanigans. Sort of a callback to No Rest for the Wicked, but no need to have read that to get this little bit.
> 
> Set in the vague future of their established relationship, but prior to Duncan joining them.

“Stop squirming!” Natasha whispers. “You’re gonna wake him up.”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “I’ll stop moving when he stops _pinching_ my--”

“Shhh!” A finger to his lips silences him. Their eyes dart to the snoozing figure shifting between MacCready’s legs. A small stutter perforates the easy rise and fall of Deacon’s chest. His head angles slightly, titling back into MacCready’s ribs. Natasha and MacCready hold their breath until Deacon’s eases long and slow once more. Deacon’s head dips slightly as Mac’s stomach deflates with a sigh of relief.

Blood flows back to where Deacon’s shoulder ground against his inner thigh. No more pinching. No more shuffling. And no lost progress. MacCready smirks. The plan is a go. 

“Okay,” Nat murmurs, leaning forward once more.

“Careful, killer.”

“Me? _Always_.”

“Hm.”

“ _Hm_ yourself.”

They fall silent as Natasha dips lower. It might as well be a bomb she’s holding instead of a pair of shades. Daintily, she grips the sunglasses between her fingers. They hover just over Deacon’s face, dark lenses casting shadows down his freckled features. 

Slowly, _slowly_ , as if tucking bricks into a Jenga tower, Natasha aligns them above the bridge of his nose. There’s a faint _click_ when the lenses touch. Natasha’s hands retreat. 

Her eyes flash, victorious, to MacCready. Mac buries the snicker that bubbles in his chest. It twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“ _S_ _ix_ ,” she murmurs. The smug smirk on her face matches his.  
  
Their little sunglasses tower is starting to get a bit leany. And ridiculous. The shades stack on Deacon’s face, tilting sideways, slipping perilously towards the edge of the couch. One sudden move, and they’ll all go sliding. 

Mac glances towards the bare surface of the coffee table. “You got more? I know _he_ does.”

“I’m out,” Nat slouches back, face wrinkled in thought. “Already got five and six from under the bed.”

“Mantle?” MacCready cranes his neck, peering at the ledge overlooking the fireplace. The sudden silence has him rigid. Glancing back down, he watches the swallow bob in Deacon’s throat. The soothing, sleepy rhythm of his breath resumes a moment later.

“Checked it,” Natasha says. “And his dresser.”

Mac leans back, head lolling to the empty gray of the ceiling slats. In his mind’s eye, he draws a map, not of the corrugated metal and bolts above, but of the floor below. In the morning, Deacon’s feet hit the floorboards first. Mac’s hands tangled over him, trying to tease Deacon back to bed, to no avail. Deacon left MacCready with a fond kiss to his temple, and with Nat cocooning in the newly freed space in the blankets, marinating in the body heat he left behind.

Deacon went to the kitchen next, to make them breakfast. MacCready followed shortly after, taking over with the eggs while Deacon fetched fresh wood for a fire. Nat came later, roused by the promising smell of coffee. 

By the time the day dwindled down, Deacon’s steps had traced over the house countless times running a dozen errands. Nat set herself stubbornly in Deacon’s way until he finally rested those feet again. Then, she sought out Mac, and made the same play. Which is how Mac came to the couch, how Deacon came to be draped over him, and how Nat found them when she finished making dinner. 

And how dinner was delayed in favor of a far more fascinating project. 

“Check the back left cabinet,” Mac advises. “And the shelf over the woodpile. If you’re really hard up, I know he left one up on the roof the other night, too. Swear he sheds these things.”

“They go where he goes,” Nat murmurs affectionately. The mischief in her eyes grows gentle for a moment. MacCready finds his own gaze following the same trail, down the bend of Deacon’s neck, over the hint of collarbone peeking beneath his shirt, and the crook of his legs, sandwiched between MacCready’s. 

...And back up again, to the ease of Deacon’s jaw, set relaxed and expressionless. And the six pairs of sunglasses set over his shut eyes. MacCready’s mouth twitches alongside his stomach. He douses another rogue snicker. It’s too good to wreck now.

“Maybe we should just let him sleep,” Nat ponders.

“What? _Heck_ no. We’ve come too far.”

Nat shrugs, unconvinced. “He just seems so…”

“Don’t fall for it. You know he’d do it to one of us. He’s done _worse_.”

“Well,” she says warmly, brown eyes meeting his, “there was that _one_ time.”

Mac’s resolve won’t budge, but his lips do. It melts over him, a soft smile and a softer memory.

It’s been too many nights to count now, tangled up in sheets or sprawled on the couch, wound through each other. But that first still shines, bright and clear in his mind’s eye. The night Deacon came home, but didn’t know it yet. The night Nat dozed off and it was Deacon pinned to the couch and not Mac. They weren’t exactly stacking sunglasses just yet. 

_Yet_. That came later. After other things did. 

“Yeah,” Mac concedes, “but apparently your snore was a siren song or something. Made him fall in love with you.”

“ _Me?_ Like you two weren’t sweet-talking each other while I was knocked out.”

Mac scoffs. “Well, he definitely lied about touching your hair that time.”

“Oh,” Nat straightens abruptly. “Well, vengeance it is then.”

She vanishes around the corner, slipping silently over well-tread floors. MacCready hears the creak of the cabinets as she rifles through. A chill seeps in with the whine from the back door as she steps out to continue the search. MacCready shivers before he thinks to stifle it. Good thing his living blanket doesn’t seem to notice. 

Nat returns, cheeks flushed from the cold. MacCready inspects her find. Four pairs. Not bad. Enough to get them to an even ten.

With patient, quiet precision, she fits Deacon with number seven. A breath passes. Deacon doesn’t stir. She takes number eight in hand. MacCready follows the shape of the shadow, bending over Deacon’s nose. 

She tenses, pausing. MacCready scowls. “What are you wait--”

Deacon’s arms dart out and snag her to his chest.

“ _Wahh!_ ”

Nat shrieks, but the sound muffles into Deacon’s shoulder. Sunglasses clatter to the floor. But it’s all background noise to the grunt that grits from MacCready’s teeth. Bone digs into his thigh all over again. He grimaces against the pinch.

Seconds later, they shift and resettle. Well, _Deacon_ does. Nat’s a captive now, wrapped to Deacon’s chest without so much as a word from the man himself. Deacon leans against MacCready with a far too satisfied smile spread across his lips, and three sets of sunglasses, hinged behind his ears, drooping down the back of his head. The firelight shimmers off the surface of six lenses, staring back at Mac.

MacCready shakes his head. It’s starting to ache a bit, that dopey smile that’s hanging off his face. Mac would’ve thought he’d be used to it by now, what with these two hanging around. Hard to get used to that kind of happy, when it feels more like magic than something real. Hard to picture anything but, now that he knows it. 

Tentatively, MacCready’s palm finds that prickle of ginger that’s started on Deacon’s scalp. The other hand tangles in Natasha’s hair. It’s longer now than he’s ever seen it before. Almost as long as it was in that picture he carries around.

In minutes, their chests rise and fall in parallel. MacCready watches the pattern of their bodies pressed together, hypnotized. Until his own eyes droop, and he feels it seep into the slow tide of his own exhale.

Magic. But real. _His._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little snippet! Feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed, or come say hey on Tumblr. I'm @adventuresofmeghatron. Thank you so much for reading <3


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